You Can Win this Battle (but You Have to Win the War)
by FlameOfArcana
Summary: In every kingdom, in every great Empire, there is one thing that mars its grand history with ugly scars. Itachi grows closer to inheriting his own Empire, and he's determined to change a thing or two. What he hates most brings him an irreplaceable gift, though, and that-well, that just fucks everything up. KisaIta week 2017


"It's been years since I've seen you act like a toddler like this."

"I am not," Itachi huffed, defiant, glaring at the rolling piles of silk hung in his wardrobe, "acting like a toddler." His servant flitted around him, tugging on wrinkles in his purple robe, plucking at the stray hair buckling under his golden laurel.

"Eh," Shisui said.

Itachi's servant ran her fingers through his hair that spilled from under his crown and laid on his chest. "That is enough, Yugao, I look fine."

"This is the first time you have made a public appearance to the Arena in five years, Master. You must look perfect." Yugao smoothed her hands down his back and adjusted the golden coiled belt around his waist.

"He looks perfect," Shisui offered with a wink. He leaned against the wall, one leg slack and bent at the knee. His robes were a deep green, matching his eyes, an emerald crusted laurel nestled into the mess of curls on his head. "I assure you, my dearest cousin, you will survive a single match."

"Perhaps I," Itachi countered, "but not everyone."

"Your hands, Master," Yugao said, opening a golden box of jewelry.

Itachi frowned, offering his hands to her, watching as she wrapped coils around his wrists and slid rings onto his fingers. "This is so ostentatious," he muttered. He, months ago, insisted that she called him by his name, because he was tired of being called master. And she did, and for a time they were friends—at least, that's what it felt like—but she slipped up and spoke to him informally in front of Fugaku. She was sent to a cellar for three days without food. The two of them didn't converse like friends after that.

Shisui sighed, pushing away from the wall. He shooed away Yugao and waited till she was gone before putting both hands on Itachi's shoulders, tugging him closer. "Itachi," he said, quietly, feeling the coolness of Itachi's silken clothes under his fingers. "Look at me."

Itachi's eyes flicked across the room, settling on the grandiose pillars of his bed, which spiraled like water spouts towards the ceiling, to the elegant swaths of fabric sweeping between them, settling on the crystal vases holding exotic flowers from imported seeds, the velvet pillows and jewel mosaics; finally, he stared on the sheets of marble under his feet, hesitating before meeting Shisui's eyes.

Shisui slid his hands up to Itachi's face, resting his thumbs on Itachi's cheekbones.

"How do you do go to these so often? How do you…stand it, acting like you…are okay with being a part of this."

Shisui hummed, eyes holding their mischievous glint. "I think of you."

Itachi's eyes widened.

"I think of how much I don't want to see you suffer. Think of the way you look when you're overwhelmed, think of how you shut off when you're traumatized."

Itachi looked down.

"Then it's not so bad anymore."

"You make it sound," Itachi flexed his jaw, "you make it sound like a charity."

"It is." Shisui grinned. "I sponsor the 'Itachi sits on his pretty bed and reads' charity."

Itachi's fingertips tapped against his leg. "Thank you, then, if that's what you're fishing for."

Shisui slapped him on the back a couple times. "Not fishing for anything, dear cousin." He looked him over for a few seconds. "You get prettier by the day, you know that?"

Itachi rolled his eyes. He slipped out of Shisui's grasp. "I can't even walk in all this," he said, bunching up a handful of gold silk, rolling one shoulder, adjusting the weight of the purple velvet robe.

"When did you get so dramatic? You really are acting like a toddler."

Itachi glared. After a moment of fiddling with his sleeve, his gaze melted into affection. "Shisui."

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Shisui's face lit up, split in half by that big grin of his, and he swooped his smaller friend up into a big hug. "There he is," he laughed. "That's my favorite cousin!"

"Favorite," Itachi huffed. "As if there's anyone else to choose from." He wiggled. "Set me down, you are ruining all of Yugao's hard work."

"Hard work? You do the 'looking-pretty' all on your own." Shisui smoothed some of the wrinkles he created. "Ready? It's showtime."

Arena Cartha was a daunting place to enter. The stone pillars shot up to the sky, and at their tops sat brown baskets of fruit, flowers, meats, precious textiles—offerings of good luck. Young boys and girls tossed dried grass at the onlookers as they passed through the entrance, a tradition meant to ward off any evil presences or bad karma clinging to the guests. Torches lined the curving wall; their wax was infused with perfumes to keep things smelling nice, even when the sun baked the blood into the gray, chipping walls of the rink and left a smell as rotten as the activities that put it there.

The guests began to fill into the seats, the poorer classes at the top, farthest away from the action. On the right side of the arena, in a special area built up for perfect viewing, the seats were designated for the royal family. Fugaku and his wife, Mikoto,—who was dressed in the most beautiful golden gown, hair swept up with glistening golden pins and decorated in vibrant, freshly plucked morning glories—were flanked by Yashiro, Tekka, and Inabi, Fugaku's three closest council.

Itachi bristled as he approached them, Shisui on his heels, silently urging him forward.

"My son," Fugaku said, looking surprised. "What a pleasant turn of events." He sat in his large stone throne, legs spread comfortably, a large bowl of fruit at his right hand. "I was not expecting to see you here again…for quite some time."

"Father," Itachi nodded to him, "and Mother."

"Itachi," Mikoto said warmly, reaching a hand up to clasp onto his. "I'm happy to see you today."

Itachi softened just a little. "I'm happy to see you too, Mother." He squeezed her hand once and then let go, walking to the throng of seats where he and Shisui sat, behind his father and mother.

"Ah, Fugaku," Mikoto said eagerly, turning to her husband, "why don't we let Itachi and his Company lead the game today?"

Fugaku raised an eyebrow.

"After all," she justified, "it's no ordinary day that our eldest comes to watch the games with us. He is our heir, so perhaps we should get him used to his duties and maybe he would participate more often…." Her voice trailed off a little sadly.

"Hm." Fugaku looked contemplative. Itachi watched him from the corner of his eye, tense.

Sasuke, who was already seated behind his father, leaned forward with a big grin. "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea, let Itachi call the games today! To celebrate him coming for once!"

Itachi rolled his eyes. "You just want to sit in the front row, since you are part of my Company."

"Well, uh, _duh_."

Fugaku let out a chesty chuckle, setting his hands on his knees. "Well, why not? I'm happy to see my eldest son here after so many years. Let's celebrate to our fullest. Itachi, you shall lead the games today, in honor of your appearance."

"Father..." he started reluctantly, "I really didn't mean for this to get any special attention—"

"Nonsense!" Fugaku lumbered to his feet, pristine white clothes reflecting the bright sunlight. "We are all happy to see you today. Go ahead and do the honors."

Itachi shared a look with Shisui, who shrugged and motioned him forward.

Sasuke cheered from behind him, taking the seat at Itachi's left hand. Shisui flopped down at Itachi's right hand, propping his feet up on the stool in front of him.

Itachi settled into his chair, hiding a tense when Fugaku rested a large hand on his shoulder.

The sun blazed hot above them, but most of it was blocked out by a thick red and gold woven tarp that was suspended between four carved wooden pillars. Servants came by with bowls of fruit and chalices of wine. Itachi declined all of them. He stared blankly at the dusty arena floor as musicians began to play trumpets and harps.

His trance was interrupted when a loud woman plopped onto Shisui's lap. "Front row today, huh?"

Shisui grinned up at his girlfriend. "Hey there."

"Hey yourself." She motioned forward a servant, grabbing a plum from the tray of goodies she carried.

"Anko," Itachi greeted, sighing.

"Geez, don't look so happy to see me."

"Itachi is just stressed, love; give him a break," Shisui advised gently, rubbing the side of her waist.

"When is he not?" She countered. She reached over to ruffle Itachi's hair; he deftly batted her hand away, unfazed. "What you need, oh merciful ruler, is to get laid. That works for me."

" _Please,_ " Itachi stressed between his teeth, "do refrain from talking about sex with my cousin when you are both a foot from me."

She snorted.

"Anko, dear," Mikoto chided from her seat, "I know that you and Shisui are fond of being…publicly intimate, but please take your own seat, for the sake of our family name."

"Ah, yes Miss Mikoto," Anko sing-songed. She hopped off Shisui's lap after giving him a kiss on the cheek and took her seat next to him.

Sasuke leaned over the side of his chair, shoving himself into Itachi's space. "You guys are both so obnoxious. Neither of you deserve to sit at Itachi's right hand."

"I'm Itachi's closest council and advisor, so I _do_ deserve to sit here more than anyone else. Even you." Shisui stuck his tongue out childishly.

"Ch." Sasuke leaned back in his chair. "You'll be replaced when Itachi finally gets another girlfriend."

"I don't know if Itachi is going to get a _girlfriend_ any time soon," Shisui said around a snicker.

Itachi elbowed him.

"What made you decide to come, anyways, brother?" Sasuke asked. "I never thought I'd see you here again."

Itachi hummed, propping his head on his palm. "Apparently my absence was causing a bit of a stir."

"The empire has been disturbed by their soon-to-be emperor's lack of appearance," Shisui elaborated. "The high priest has been gathering people to pray daily for Itachi's health, because rumor has it that Itachi is gravely ill and that's why he hasn't been publicly sighted in so long."

Sasuke snorted.

"So Itachi coming here stifles the rumors, boosts the temple people's morale, and reminds the empire that their heir can meet them halfway with their traditions." Shisui says the last one with a little bite.

The trumpets suddenly blasted, loud enough to startle, and Itachi's attention snapped to the back of the arena.

There was a groaning sound, the noise booming across the stadium floor and up into the seats. Two guards pulled giant, worn metal gates apart. From the dark chasm, one man emerged. He was from a wealthy house, if the long sleeves of his robe and bright colored dressings were anything to go by. His hands were clasped in front of him. He took slow, rhythmic steps until he reached the exact center of the arena, where the image of a laurel was etched into the ground and accented in gold.

"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen of the empire, and welcome to the year's grand tournament!"

The stadium erupted in cheers. Itachi looked around. Different houses waved flags with their emblem on them; Itachi remembered reading that wealthy houses placed bets on what warrior they thought would win.

How anyone could be so blasé about gambling on human life, Itachi wasn't sure.

"Today we have the utmost honor of hosting our very own heir, first born of Emperor Uchiha, our crown prince Itachi!"

The stadium erupted even more loudly, and Itachi's eyes widened. "How did they know?"

"Word travels fast." Shisui nudged his arm with his elbow. "They really like you."

"I…couldn't imagine why."

Shisui snorted. "With that attitude, me neither."

"My good citizens of the Empire," the man on the floor continued, "this year's tournament has been built up to be one of the most exciting ones yet. May the end of this year bring our royal family even more honor and power!"

Another eruption of cheers. Itachi had to wonder if it was genuine or not.

"Without any further ado, let us get onto the games!"

The trumpets blew even louder to be heard over the frantic crowd. Itachi resisted covering his ears.

A procession began to exit from the chambers at the back of the arena. Men carrying various weapons, shields, and armor emerged in lines.

Itachi was surprised they weren't wearing chains. Maybe he was a little rusty on the practices of the games.

Still, he wondered how many of them were there of their own volition.

The when the Empire was founded so many years ago, Madara Uchiha started the tradition of the annual games for entertainment. Arena Cartha was built in his honor, and tournaments were held for his glory. For years and years, they ran off the criminals locked in the dungeons below the city. None of them really had a choice, and if they won, they were promised freedom. The games were brutal.

Not many won their freedom. Madara saw it as a win-win, because the prisons were almost always empty.

That was done away with when Kagami Uchiha became ruler generations later; one of the most prominent changes he made during his era was that the games were only allowed to be played with free, willing citizens. Criminals of the empire were still allowed to enter the games to win their freedom, but it was a crime of itself to force anyone else. And for a while things still operated smoothly off of his new rules.

Over time, people stopped wanting to fight. The games were savage, vicious, and the chances of winning became slimmer and slimmer as guests wanted them longer and grander. Citizens of the Royal City stopped entering. Foreigners stopped coming in search of honor and glory since nine times out of ten it ended with their heads on stakes around the arena walls.

That didn't mean people of the royal city didn't want to keep watching and gambling.

So long after Kagami passed away, when his vision and his wishes became murky through time, and no one really cared what _he_ wanted so much when new rulers had come to pass—that's when things started deteriorating. First the old laws were abolished, and criminals were dragged from cells around regions of the empire and forced into the fights. From there it was a slippery slope—prisoners of war were next, and then rich houses started hiring assassins to capture any wandering nomads and warriors and chain them up under the arena.

Technically, Itachi knew that people still came to battle in Arena Cartha in search of fame and glory, since tournament victors were usually highly esteemed, and became pseudo-celebrities—that is, if they weren't forced back into it (which happened to almost every single victor), or if they didn't push their luck and die the next year.

"This is the first day of the tournament," Shisui murmured to his right, interrupting Itachi's thoughts. "Unfortunately that means it's the most bloody. Lots of preliminary battles."

"Wonderful," Itachi muttered, slouching.

"Esteemed heirs have good posture," Shisui chided.

"Well I have bad posture." Itachi ignored Shisui's pointed stare; eventually, he gave in and straightened up.

Shisui shook his head. "I really have never seen you so childish."

After the entire group of warriors were paraded around the length of the arena floor, the majority of them were led back into the holding area. The gates grated shut.

Five men were left on the floor. Dust swirled up from their footsteps, glowing orange in the harsh sunlight. The crowd hushed, only murmurs and whispers fluttering around the seats.

A servant girl offered Itachi wine again. He shook his head. Sasuke motioned her over.

The fighters circled in the center, grasping weapons. One had a bow and arrow, another a large sword, another a large mace. There were shields, knives, ropes; the range of weapons seemed to make the playing field a little tilted. How could someone with tiny knives ever go head to head with a swordsman?

As if reading his mind, Shisui leaned over. "The warriors get to choose their weapons and armor to whatever suits them best. People of different weapons classes are usually pitted against each other in the beginning to weed out the weaker contenders."

"Ah. I see," Itachi murmured back. "Why would everyone not just choose the strongest weapon?"

"Likely because there is no such thing." Shisui squinted into the ring. "Someone nimble and lithe wouldn't want a bulky sword. Someone with little stamina would favor something long-ranged. Just because someone has a massive weapon doesn't mean he has the upper hand; you'd be surprised with some of the things I've seen over the years."

The announcer said something else, but Itachi didn't hear him over Shisui' murmurs. Next thing he knew, the gladiators on the floor turned towards him and raised their weapons.

"For you glory, we fight!" They chanted in unison. "And for your honor, we die!"

Itachi's eyes were wide as saucers. He was stuck to the back of his chair watching.

For him? Die for him? Just for entertainment?

"Itachi," Shisui murmured, "you have to call the games."

"What?"

"You have to call the games," he stressed again.

Looking up, Itachi saw that the crowd was awkwardly silent, everyone looking to him. He could feel his father's gaze boring sternly into his shoulder.

He stood swiftly. With a voice much clearer than he thought was in him, he rang out, "Let the games begin!"

And the stadium exploded in cheer and shouts.

The warriors circled up again, scanning each other carefully. The largest man, who wielded an iron sword, lunged at another. Caught off guard, the second man took the brunt of the force, stumbling backwards. Itachi saw blood drip to the ground. The swordsman lunged again, but this time he was countered with knives.

"Itachi, sit down."

He sank back into the stone throne, unsteady, eyes trained on the fighting.

The swordsman raised both his powerful arms and swung the sword with a roar, still focusing on the man with knives, and Itachi's fingers clenched on the armrest; the smaller one was done for, there was no way he would survive another strike from the sword—!

One section of the stadium—Itachi recognized them as a wealthy house that made musical instruments—began to loudly scream, and Itachi turned his attention back downwards just in time to see a third opponent draw back his bow with lightning speed. The arrow whizzed through the air and sank itself straight into the swordsman's back. The fourth contender, who carried a smaller, more lightly colored sword, severed the fallen swordsman's head clean off.

Itachi couldn't keep himself from quickly pressing his hand to his mouth.

"No peripheral awareness," Shisui murmured. "Big guy was so focused on one person, but there were three others he needed to keep track of."

The knife-wielding warrior jumped back from his position, crouching low and keeping his enemies in his line of sight.

With one down, the remaining four warriors sized each other up again.

"That one's going to win," Shisui murmured, nodding his head.

Itachi blinked over at him.

Shisui's laurel fit in perfectly with his curly hair, the sun glinting off of the twisted golden leaves. His green eyes were narrowed as he surveyed the carnage bellow. He didn't look comfortable, and Itachi knew he disproved of the family tradition as well, but he was much more analytical about it that Itachi was. Perhaps it was because of his own years of military training, perhaps it was because his stomach was so much more iron than Itachi's. He raised a slim finger and pointed the one of the men. "That one."

"How can you tell?"

Shisui hummed. "He's staying out of the fray until more people are knocked down. It's hard to keep track of four other opponents, but it's easy to keep track of one or two. By removing himself from the fighting, he's making himself less of a target and saving his energy."

Itachi looked down to see one of the four get a sword right through his belly.

More raucous cheering.

Now it was down to three. The gladiator Shisui had his metaphorical money on finally approached, unable to stay on the outskirts any longer. He had a rope in one hand and a short, broad, serrated knife in the other.

"His weapons seem inferior," Itachi murmured. "I know what you said, but—"

"You're correct," Shisui responded, "in noticing that he's not as well equipped. But he chose those for a reason, and so far he seems more intelligent than anyone else."

Itachi reluctantly turned back.

The man with the knives threw two towards the swordsman. He deflected them with his shield and charged. The first dodged his attack, landing one knife into the thick of his leg. He swung his sword in one big sweep, knocking his opponent back. Itachi was sure that he had the upper hand until he saw a rope lash out and wind itself around his ankle. He was yanked to the ground, dust pluming around him, and while Itachi couldn't see well through the swirling of the air, people on the other side of the stadium went wild.

The man with the knives lunged forward and jumped on the fallen gladiator's back, arm cranking down in a series of brutal bludgeons. The dust settled to reveal a pool of blood and the third man down.

The remaining two wasted no time; the man with the knives slid forward and snagged a discarded shield off the floor, holding it up just in time to thwack away the rope that went sailing for his neck. He tossed two more knives and ran to retrieve the previous ones he had attacked with. The roped man came running for him, and they parried briefly before retreating again.

"They are quite equal," Itachi said softly, looking back to his cousin. "But the rope is so long ranged, I don't see how knives can compare."

"I concur."

The knife wielder lunged, throwing two to his right, and then quickly two more to the left. Predictably, his opponent dodged to the left. He suddenly cried out, dropping to one knee and clutching a wound on his thigh.

The crowd began to boo loudly, fruit pits raining into the ring.

"Why do they jeer?" Itachi asked, confused, looking across the sea of people.

Shisui eyed him. "People take favor with certain fighters. A lot of the wealthy houses watch the first few matches and then bet heavily on the warriors they think will win. Even if money isn't on the line, it's only natural for people to have their favorites."

"There is nothing natural about any of this."

He was bleeding, but the gladiator got back up and lunged once again for the other man. He seemed to be desperate to get it over with; he was injured, after all, and that would slow him down significantly if he didn't get the upper hand back.

The one with the knives was feeling too cocky, Itachi guessed, because his movements became slow and sloppy, and soon the serrated knife slashed a wicked wound across his abdomen. He swiped vigorously with his knives, but his opponent danced out of the way every time. He stepped at the wrong time, found a rope around his neck, and that was that.

His face turned a sickly purple as the other man yanked it tighter and tighter. The cheering of the crowd deafened out of the warriors strangled screams. The victor showed no mercy, not even using his serrated knife to finish him off. Finally the man lay still on the floor.

"Well that was predictable," Fugaku muttered behind him, waving his hand out for more wine.

The final warrior walked out of the ring of bodies to kneel in front of the stands Itachi was seated at. He stayed there for a few seconds, head bowed, before uneasily pushing himself back up and limping towards the gates in the back. He still had that nasty wound on his leg.

Itachi let out a breath.

At least it was over.

"You made it through one match," Shisui murmured, leaning over. "How do you feel?"

Itachi suddenly felt weary. "One…match? There's more?"

Shisui snorted. "These are only preliminaries. There will be several more fights, with varying numbers, to cut the fat. The more condensed the pool is, the better the fighters; the better the fighters, the more extreme the matches are. It's all in the name of entertainment value."

Itachi stared coldly at the floor. "How many people die in one tournament?"

Shisui shifted. He sighed a little, reaching a hand out to brush Itachi's wrist. "A lot." He stared at the side of Itachi's face. "I'm sorry, Itachi."

"Don't apologize to me." He shook his head, just barely. "Don't pity me, this is not about me."

"Well," Shisui said, wrapping his fingers around Itachi's wrist. "Be that as it may."

The games continued, regardless of Itachi's feelings, as they had for years. There were many more battles, some with only a couple, some with many. Not every fight boiled down to only one or two victors. There were teams pitted against each other, partners that stood back to back, timed matches. After each round, a couple of men came through the arena to drag the bodies away.

The floor was covered in patches of dark red blood, baked into the earth.

Each time, Itachi had to stand and confirm the start of the game. Each time people knelt in front of him and pledged their life to him, for his "honor and glory." Each time they died.

Each time his people—his family, his little _brother—_ cheered.

Eventually his eyes unfocused of their own accord; he stared unseeingly into the arena, bodies and blood and weapons blurred into nothing.

He remembered, all too vividly, when he foolishly wandered outside of the protective walls of the citadel when he was a child; he remembered the smell of iron from swords grating against each other, from the blood that stained his tiny shoes, he remembered the maggots writhing on rotted flesh and—

"This is the last match," Shisui murmured.

Itachi blinked, mechanically looking up. "Last one?"

"For today. Of course, this tournament will last till the end of the month." He smiled reassuringly and said, "But your duty is almost done, at least."

Itachi shook his head slightly, back pressing harder against the throne. A servant tried to offer him fruit for the umpteenth time; Itachi rejected, maintaining his composure so as not to come off as exasperated as he felt.

The final band of warriors slowly exited through the gates to line up in front of Itachi's throne. There were ten this time.

Shisui hummed. "This match goes till the first five die, looks like. Then it's over." He frowned. "It should be quick."

Itachi's eyes flicked back and forth amongst the people lining up before him. They were cloaked in the standard armor of all the previous men herded out to fight, and Itachi saw several reused weapons.

None of them looked particularly extraordinary until—

Itachi's eyes widened when he settled on the eighth man in the row of ten.

He was built as big as the arena itself, arms and legs thick like tree trunks. His face was strong, jawline wicked. His hair was short on the sides and longer on the top, and unusual hairstyle for the royal city. Most noticeable was the ink etched into his limbs and crawling along the top of his chest; it was reminiscent of the traditional marking from the coastal tribes, miles and miles and miles from the heart of the empire.

How on earth did he end up here?

In his hand was a sword more massive than Itachi's entire body. Ridged and rounded, patterned as something that felt vaguely reminiscent of nasty fish scales, Itachi's stomach knotted just looking at the thing; he couldn't imagine going head to head with it—nor the man that wielded it—and he was glad that he didn't have to.

Shisui whistled lowly. "Hot damn. I've never seen a sword like that. It must have come with him."

"That's allowed?"

"Sure, why not. Foreign weapons are sure to make things more interesting."

"And everything is in the name of entertainment value," Itachi muttered.

"Ah, my sweet Itachi. You learn so quickly."

Itachi's eyes trained back to the warrior. Stranger than anything else—his massive body, more massive sword, very unfamiliar features and characteristics—was the grin on his face. He stood there, on earth that had held countless corpses over the years, grinning like it was an average afternoon. His stance was relaxed, eyes slanted, even as he pledged his life to Itachi.

He looked like he was sharing a marvelous inside joke with himself.

It wasn't until Shisui nudged him that he remembered his opening lines. "Let the games begin."

And so they did.

Itachi kept his eyes on the unusual one, the one with the sword. He moved remarkably quickly for his size. His movements were calculated, swift, and _accurate_. The broadness of his sword doubled as a shield, Itachi noticed; the gladiator countered every attack thrown at him. He looked effortless. He looked fierce. Like he wasn't even trying.

Maybe he wasn't, Itachi mused.

He looked…like nothing Itachi had ever seen before.

And he didn't stop grinning, for reasons Itachi could not fathom.

Shisui was overwhelmingly right—the final match was over in almost no time at all. The crowd seemed to be shocked as well, that one fighter could clear four other people on his own in a mere handful of minutes.

The surviving gladiators in the ring must have felt lucky.

Itachi blinked. "That was…fast."

Shisui whistled. "Now that's a contender. Wonder where he came from? He definitely didn't learn that type of skill from the training they get under the arena."

"Prisoner of war?" Itachi whispered vaguely.

Shisui's forehead creased. "Unlikely; the empire has made no conquests all year." He considered it for a moment. "Perhaps he came here freely. Or he could have been an assassin from a different land thrown in jail. Who knows." He leaned back. "This is going to be one interesting tournament, if he's here. We'll see if any of the other preliminaries yield anyone that promising."

The gladiator strode, back straight, grin _fierce_ , and knelt in front of Itachi, head bowed. And then he lumbered up, formidable sword scraping against the ground, and met Itachi's eyes.

Itachi could not breathe for a split second.

And then the man turned around, swinging his sword effortlessly onto his shoulder, and strode back into the dungeon, and the moment was over.

The games were wrapped up, the announcer from earlier giving some monologue that Itachi didn't pay attention to. Fugaku stood up and gave a farewell from the royal family, which rustled up another round of applause from the crowd.

Itachi got up quickly, motioning Shisui to follow.

"Ah, Itachi, it might be wise to stick around—"

"I do not _want_ to be here another second longer."

"But, _Itachi_ , your people have been eager to see you for _years_ and this is your first public appearance—"

"Shisui, I am leaving _now,_ I do not—"

"Itachi."

Itachi straightened up, going silent at the sound of his father's commanding voice.

"Shisui is one of the wisest men of the empire. You're lucky you have him as your council; I wouldn't take that for granted."

After a beat of silence, Itachi let out a gentle breath. "I understand, Father, but I do not think I could keep pleasant conversation right now."

"Hm."

"I promise I will make a formal public appearance soon."

Fugaku sighed, extending an arm for Mikoto to hold onto. "Very well. I have no choice but to trust your judgement—but you will need to address your people sooner rather than later." He passed by, patting Itachi's shoulder. "It was pleasant to see you, today, Son."

Mikoto leaned around her husband to press a sweet kiss to her eldest's cheek. "Come have tea with me, soon, my dear."

"Yes, Mother," he murmured. He watched his parents retreat from the stadium, flanked by the rest of their company. He was normally a relatively patient person, but today he was on _edge_ , and he didn't wait for Shisui to finish making moon eyes at Anko before turning and heading to the palace, robe sweeping the ground. He hurried back to his chambers alone—even though he was supposed to be escorted everywhere he went. Yugao tried to help him undress, but he ordered her out of the room.

"Just leave me alone," he huffed, shutting the door on her, ripping the rings off of his fingers and throwing them into a velvet box. He peeled off the bracelets and yanked off his necklaces. When he tried to remove the laurel it snagged in his hair, and he tore out strands of black from his scalp in his hurry to get it off.

He just—he just couldn't get it out of his mind. The way the citizens of the empire— _his empire_ —went wild when someone was slaughtered. The way they cheered, the way they laughed—

"God—god dammit," Itachi muttered, cursing when his robe got stuck under his chin when he tried to rip it off and it yanked his neck back. He balled up the purple fabric and tossed onto his daybed lounge.

It had been so long since he had visited Arena Cartha. Children weren't allowed into the arena until the age of thirteen—at which point he immediately protested the murder and chaos he saw.

No one quite cared about his opinion, though.

Shisui was the only one on his side, but as a fringe Uchiha, he didn't have enough power to influence ancient Empire traditions. Itachi was forced to go for years _—'this is your duty, you will someday be emperor, you are far too soft'_. His relationship with his father deteriorated drastically, to the point that they could hardly stand to be in the same room at the same time.

One day, Itachi disappeared into his father's meeting chamber. They fought harder than Itachi ever guessed possible, and subsequently didn't talk for months afterwards. Itachi stopped going to family dinners and events. He stopped making public appearances. Sasuke, though he wasn't heir, suddenly inherited many of Itachi's responsibilities and privileges.

Itachi stopped going to the games, too.

So Itachi had forgotten, in all his years of reading and learning languages and arts and astronomy, of living in his own peaceful bubble, he had forgotten what really went on every year. What his family encouraged, what his people reveled in. He forgot how sick it made him, he forgot what he fought his father so hard to begin with.

But now he remembered, and his throat and stomach _burned_.

How many people did he see die today? How many of them were captives?

"You couldn't even wait for me? I'm hurt, Itachi."

Itachi bristled. "Sorry I don't take to watching you and Anko publicly fornicate."

" _Jeez_ , you are in one shit mood." Shisui came up behind him, reaching forward to touch his back. "C'mon, don't bite the hand that feeds you."

Itachi tensed up at the touch, turning his head slightly to look back at his cousin. "I'm not in the _mood_ , Shisui."

He sighed, dropping his hand. Rays of warm afternoon sun filtered in through Itachi's grandiose window, dusting the floor and shimmering over the gossamer fabric draped around the frame of his bed. "How about you talk to me."

Itachi kept his back to him.

Shisui sighed. "You have such a soft heart, Itachi, I know how upset you must be."

"I thought I told you not to pity me!" Itachi said loudly. "Is this what it's come to? I'm so fragile that I can't be expected to do anything, that I'm so sensitive I should just stay holed up in my room?"

"Itachi, that's not what—"

"You said that you go to these games for me so I can sit here and read. And that's all I do, I sit on my damn bed and read and do _nothing!_ I gave up trying to do anything so long ago." He suddenly whirled around, hair whipping against his neck. "How am I any better than my Father? I know something terrible is happening and I just _sit here!_ "

Shisui stared at him.

"I'm not doing anything for this empire, I'm not doing anything for these people, I'm not—"

"Itachi—"

"I'm not standing up for what I actually think is right I'm just—how many people—"

"Itachi—"

"How many people die each year for this stupid—"

" _Itachi!_ "

Golden afternoon light reflected off the glass vase on Itachi's dresser, hit the mirror and scattered like pebbles across Itachi's black hair.

"If you want to change the empire so badly, Itachi, than just _change it_."

Itachi paused, fingers frozen in mid-air. They twitched once. "You make it sound so easy. As if I haven't already tried."

"Of course it won't be easy. But I believe in you, Itachi, I always have."

A beat. They heard two girls skitter down the hallway outside Itachi's chamber doors, giggling.

"I don't know how." Itachi hated that, maybe more than anything—hated feeling helpless, powerless. Hated _not knowing_.

Shisui smiled a little, stepping forward to ruffle his hair. "It'll come to you, Itachi. And I am here every step of the way. Always will be."

Itachi looked down, losing some of his steam. He leaned back against the vanity. "And how would you suggest," he started, voice muted, "that I go about doing that."

Shisui hummed. He stepped back a few times, letting himself collapse onto a pile of wool-woven pillows and silk on the floor. "I can gather the official arena census, if you would like, but I know the past two years there has been a significant decline in attendance. Today looked emptier than I've ever seen it."

"Emptier?" Itachi asked. "It looked packed."

"It was. But before? Itachi, before people would fight to get into the entrance. Before people sat in the aisles and stood outside the arena just to hear the crowd cheer."

Itachi's brow furrowed. "What has changed?"

Shisui's green eyes glimmered as they focused on him. "I think the people are getting a little bored. Perhaps the tradition isn't as beloved as it used to be." He hummed, eyes lolling to the ceiling. His gaze traced the ornate golden patterns that twisted and danced across the marbles. "Children cannot come, so mothers and fathers do not come. The fewer people go, the more shop keepers and workers have to stay on the streets. It's a cycle." He looked away, to the trees blooming pink outside of Itachi's window. "My point is—after all this time, perhaps the Empire is in need of a little change. Perhaps it will not be such an impossible feat."

Itachi rolled over what Shisui told him. He muttered, "Well, regardless, as long as my father approves, I don't see it going anywhere."

"You never know. Maybe your old man isn't as stubborn as you think." Shisui's green eyes were unsettling. "Maybe you're stronger—more influential—than you think. Did you hear how the crowd cheered for you? You have always been beloved by your people. Fugaku…not as much. Don't you think that counts for something?"

"Maybe." Itachi sighed. "I guess it has to mean something, if I want to get anywhere in this damn empire." He pushed away from the dresser, reaching up to his neck to untie his shirt.

"Do you need me to get Yugao?"

He gave his cousin a look. "Uh—I am perfectly capable of dressing on my own." He slipped his shirt over his head and laid it on a mauve-colored plush bench.

Shisui chuckled, kicking his legs out. His leather sandals bounced off his feet and onto the marble floor. "You know, Itachi, it's crazy. You have someone to take your clothes off at your command—just not in the good way."

Itachi rolled his eyes, pulling his hair out of its tie. "What is the deal with your and Anko's obsession with my sex life?"

"Nuh-uh," Shisui protested. "You don't have a sex life. That's what's we care about."

Itachi deadpanned.

"Ah, cousin, I mean it." He leaned forward, resting his wrist over his knee. "More than just a sex life—a romantic life. After Izumi…you became so turned off whenever you talked about relationships. Which is _understandable,_ but I don't know how much longer I can take seeing you go unappreciated." He paused, and then said, more quietly, "I know that you're lonely."

Itachi ignored the second statement. "You appreciate me."

Shisui snorted. "You know what I mean."

"Find me a man, then, Shisui," Itachi drawled. "Find someone yourself, if you're so worried about it."

"Che." Shisui flopped back, head falling against a golden pillow. "One of these days. What do you want him to be like?"

Itachi slipped off his pants, changing into soft cotton. "I'd say someone like you, but you have become impossibly annoying to me as of late."

"Wah, Itachi, don't hurt me like that." Shisui grinned up at him, watching Itachi slip a tan robe over his shoulders. His nimble fingers clasped it at the front. "I can't wait for the day your dad brings in a line of suitors and you have to—"

A sharp knock sounded at Itachi's chamber doors. Itachi paused, large, dark eyes blinking at the noise.

"Expecting someone?"

"No," Itachi murmured, going to answer the door. Yugao did not knock so firmly. He had nothing on his schedule the entire day. No one should be so formal to come to his _personal chambers_.

Of course, his father could do whatever he pleased.

Fugaku nodded at him once, silently asking permission to enter.

Itachi stepped aside quietly, shooting Shisui a confused look, who seemed to share his feelings.

"Father," Itachi said cautiously, smoothing down the front of his shirt. He glared at Shisui to sit up straighter. "I did not realize you were wanting to meet with me today."

Fugaku waved a hand. Dismissive. He frowned at Itachi's mauve couch, at the garments balled up messily on top and the jewelry scattered on the ground. "It's a complete mess in here. Where is your servant?"

"I sent her away," Itachi answered swiftly. "Think nothing of it." He darted forward and balled his heavy clothing up in his hands, giving his father a place to sit.

"Hm." Fugaku sat down. He took his time settling in, looking awfully contemplative, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. "I have been talking with your mother."

"Oh?" Itachi answered neutrally. He glanced at Shisui again out of nervous habit.

"We have an offer for you."

Shisui leaned forward, listening closely; as Itachi's advisor, any 'offer' would have to go through him.

"Would you like to command the tournament for the rest of the month?"

Itachi stomach flipped over. That was…not exactly what he was hoping for.

"I do believe Itachi has made other commitments to—" Shisui immediately tried to intervene, to get Itachi an escape so he wouldn't seem weak in front of Fugaku.

"What would that entail?" He ignored Shisui's gaze on him.

Fugaku folded his arms. "You would need to show up to all of the games, obviously," he started. "It doesn't mean too much extra responsibility, in all actuality. Call the games, and you can crown the victor however you please."

"However I please," Itachi responded, still cautious.

Fugaku cleared his throat. "Ah, I suppose you never have seen a tournament to fruition." He picked up a nick-knack on Itachi's dresser—a glass figurine of a crow, given to him by Izumi years ago—and frowned at it before setting it down with a gentle tap. "The tournament will be in your name. The victor's name will be listed as your victory."

Itachi listened carefully.

"Also, it is up to the Emperor to decide the fate of the victorious gladiator."

"I am not the Emperor."

"Not yet," Fugaku corrected quickly. "But as commander, you would have the responsibility."

Itachi looked down. "Right." He met Shisui's eyes briefly; his cousin was guarded, not giving away anything he was thinking. "Not yet." He took one step back, leaning against the ivory bed pillar. "What would my options even be? I don't understand what—what role I would have, if the victor has already won."

"You could kill him, for one."

Itachi's eyebrows slid up his forehead. "Why…on earth would one make that order."

Fugaku shrugged. "It depends on the crowd. Obviously wealthy houses bet on who they want to win. If their gladiator loses…."

"Sometimes they get bitter," Shisui filled in. "Sometimes they are merely displeased with the end results. It's not a perfect science, but they'll certainly let you know what they think at the end of the tournament."

"And what inclination would bring me to do what they want?"

"Nothing," Fugaku replied, "besides the fact that it is a community event."

Itachi squinted at the ground. "And my other options? Besides the death sentence?"

"You may let him walk free. You may send him to the tournament next year." Fugaku shrugged. "You can do whatever you want, really."

Itachi nodded slowly. "Alright," he acquiesced.

Shisui leaned forward, brows furrowed. "Alright as in—"

"I'll do it," he cut in, sending a glower that said 'don't be so dull.' "I'll command the tournament."

Shisui's eyebrows slid up his forehead.

Fugaku looked exceedingly pleased. "I am happy to hear that, son." He lumbered up from the seat, reaching one large hand out to rest on Itachi's shoulder. "I am proud of you for finally coming around. I knew you would accept the games eventually."

Itachi's expression screwed up. "I did not say that."

A pause. Fugaku's eyes darkened. "Ah. Well." He cast a glance to Shisui—it wasn't a secret that Fugaku wasn't Shisui's biggest fan, only respecting him for his sheer wisdom (and, in turn, Shisui wasn't rallying to please Fugaku any time soon)—and let his frown bleed back onto his face. Three years older than Itachi, Shisui had gone to the games first, voiced his displeasure years before Itachi's harsh recoil. He suspected that Fugaku blamed Shisui for swaying Itachi's opinion. "Either way, I'm pleased with your decision." His hand slid off of Itachi's shoulder (and it felt like he took all of his pride in Itachi with it) and moved to leave the room. "I will see you in a few days, at the Arena."

"Yes, Father," Itachi replied softly.

The door shut.

The light danced across the marble floor as a tree branch blew in front of the window, breaking up the light into tiny pieces.

"Uh—" Shisui clumsily broke the silence. "What on earth was all of that?"

Itachi's eyes refocused, blinking a few times. He cleared his head for a few seconds, a mix of emotions pitted against each other in his belly. On one hand, he didn't want to associate himself with the games, he never did, and the guilt and horror and pure abhorrence made his gut twist and turn harshly. But on the other hand it wasn't _about_ him, and this was—

"This is the first chance I have to actually _do_ something, Shisui," he whispered. "I can—I can do something, I can at least let one person free—right? That's worth something, right? It's better than just sitting here and doing nothing— _right?_ "

Shisui held his gaze for a second, and the soft look in his eyes spread, melting the features of his face, filling his expression with warmth. "Yes, Itachi, it's worth something."

Itachi stared at him; his eyes were—hinging on overwhelmed, but there was a _determination_ there that just fucking filled Shisui's heart with pride.

"I'm going to change this empire, Shisui, I swear." He swallowed. "I swear."

Shisui smiled simply. "I know you will."


End file.
